


Good Girl

by Minx_DeLovely



Series: The Sally Donovan Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28575246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minx_DeLovely/pseuds/Minx_DeLovely
Summary: Sally hadn’t seen Sherlock since New Year’s Day, when he slipped out of her flat a few minutes after midnight. That was going on about a month. She thought it might be awkward running into him again, but he picked up like nothing had ever happened between them.
Relationships: Sally Donovan/Sherlock Holmes
Series: The Sally Donovan Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080548
Comments: 8
Kudos: 7





	Good Girl

Sally scratched down notes as quickly as she could, while the victim’s widow, Melanie Carr, recounted what had happened to her husband. Melanie was a smallish woman and she seemed flattened by her experience; her blue eyes had no light and her voice had dropped to a monotone. She wore a sparkly, silver dress. That, combined with her blonde curly hair and her flat affect made her seem like a ghost.

“He was just sittin’ there, next to me, when this man come out in a yellow jacket. We was going home because the bar looked funny, you know? Tense? We didn’t feel right. We was going home, then this man come out and shot him.” 

“Did you see the gun?”

“I dunno. I don’t know about that kind of thing. We don’t hunt or nothing.” Melanie stared past Sally at someone moving toward them. 

Sherlock Holmes approached them with his phone glowing in his hand. Sally hadn’t seen Sherlock since New Year’s Day, when he slipped out of her flat a few minutes after midnight. That was going on about a month. She thought it might be awkward running into him again, but he picked up like nothing had ever happened between them. He jammed his phone in Melanie’s face without preamble.

“Was this the man you saw?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, it looks like him.” The woman shrugged.

Sherlock grabbed Sally’s arm and began leading her away from Melanie toward a phalanx of police cars, which were blocking passerby from looking in at the club.

“His name is Cyril Bloom, he’s one of Moriarty’s.” 

Sally shook him off. “Oy, I was in the middle of an interview.”

“And I’ve solved your case. You don’t need to ask her anything else.”

“Her husband just got murdered in front of her.”

That stopped him for a moment. He paused. “Then she’ll be happy to know I’ve found his killer. There’s a warehouse a few blocks from here.”  
Sally rubbed her forehead. A headache threatened and she found applying a little pressure could sometimes stave it off. All of her wanted to blow up at him, but she didn’t, because she wasn’t a bully. 

“You need Greg,” Sally said, calmly. “Let him get the collar. I’ll finish up here, friend.”  
He smiled at her and nodded before he walked away.   
Sally went over to the widow and apologized for the interruption. Greg followed Sherlock and took away half the team. Sally stayed, collecting evidence and interviewing suspects. By the time she got home, it was five in the morning. Her text alert went off just as she’d peeled off her shirt.

“What perfume were you wearing tonight?” Sherlock texted.

She sighed and tapped out a response. “It’s called Good Girl. My cousin Shel got it for my birthday.”

“Talking to your cousins again.”

“My uncle landed himself in jail again, so everybody’s come around.”

“Good.”

Sally smiled as she finished taking off her slacks. She slipped into bed, cradling her phone.

“Did you catch Cyril Bloom?”

“Easy. How was your widow?”

“Numb. Maybe she’ll feel a little safer because of you.”

For a moment she deliberated, thinking back to the night they spent together. He’d been so good, so sweet. Even though it was late and she needed to sleep, she wouldn’t mind seeing him. Usually that’s what these kind of late night texts were for. She bit her thumb and reread his texts. Hesitantly, she tapped out a question.

“Did you like my perfume?” she texted.

“That’s a bit personal, isn’t it?” he texted back.

“Asshole,” she whispered to herself and set her phone on the bedside table.

***

A definite pattern began to develop. When Sherlock appeared with John by his side, he’d ignore Sally. His rudeness stopped, which was an improvement, but the total indifference hurt in another way.  
When he was alone, he’d get close to her and hold her arm while they talked. Afterward, he’d text her some nonsense;

“New color lipstick?”

“I don’t wear lipstick when I work.”

Or

“I don’t like your new shampoo.”

“It helps with the curl.”

“The other one smelled like chocolate. This scent doesn’t frame you properly.”

“It’s shampoo. It doesn’t need to frame me properly.” 

Or

“What happened to that necklace you used to wear?”

“A junkie ripped it off my neck.”

“Is that why you don’t wear jewelry?”

“Basically. I have to go to sleep now.”

Or

“You looked well-rested today. I assume it’s because you’re not seeing anyone and they’re not keeping you awake with endless prattle or mediocre sex.”

“That’s a personal question.”

“You’ve been alone since New Year’s, haven’t you?”

“Not answering.”

“That was an answer.”

***

John’s wedding loomed. 

Sherlock had tried to calm his anxiety about it all with obsessive planning, but it had done nothing to make him feel better. Spending time with Mary helped marginally. Sherlock understood why John had fallen in love with her. She was funny and warm and a bit wicked. John certainly hadn’t told her that he and Sherlock used to be lovers, but she knew anyway. At a different point in her life, she would have been open to letting him into their relationship, but not now. Mary had decided to be a mother. She was going to be conventional and good after a lifetime of being neither. Sherlock would have been able to chip at her resolve easily. If it were down to Mary, he’d be having them both three times a week. It wasn’t, though. It was down to John. John would never let Sherlock touch his precious, precious wife, the salvation of his dark days. John would never stray, with him anyway, because Sherlock had destroyed the part of him that could love him. 

In the depths of his self-pity, he went out. John could not meet him for dinner-meeting Mary’s friends for Friday drinks. Sherlock wouldn’t fit in. just be awkward anyway. Did John tell him that just to make it hurt? Sherlock decided to go to the chip shop for dinner, when he saw her coming out of the grocer’s with a sack full of produce--Sally Donovan.

Sally Donovan who he tried hard to forget about when he wasn’t near her, who smelled like jasmine and bitter cocoa nubs, who rolled her eyes at him, but her pulse raced when he touched her. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid her or go and talk when she saw him and waved awkwardly, her mouth pinched in an uncomfortable smile. 

She was going through the same thing--not sure if it was worth the potential disquiet to speak to him in the street. That made him happy. He loved to irritate her; it was nearly as good as the sex. 

Sherlock walked over, his arms held wide.

“Sally! How have you been?”

He hugged her and she let him even though her arms were held straight and rigid with her bags.

“We’re hugging now?”

“We could.” He shrugged away from her and held her upper arm. She wore a velvet coat in dusty purple. Normally at work she wasn’t much for color, so this was some sort of special attire. She wore a skirt, too. Something fluttery and in a coordinating shade of plum to go with the coat.

“You look nice, what’s the occasion?”

“None of your business.”

That piqued his interest. 

“I’ll help you carry.” He scooped her grocery bags out of her hand. She looked positively baffled.

“What is happening right now?”

“I’m going to walk you home and carry your bags. Say thank you.”

Despite her flushed face and closed stance, his demanded thank you was on the tip of her tongue. That was very interesting indeed. She did love it when he bossed her, under certain circumstances. He turned and began walking to her flat. She followed, slightly flustered. He’d gotten her to follow him. Perhaps he could convince her to do other things, merely by suggestion.   
They got to her flat and went up the steps. Once they were inside her rooms, he set the bags down in her galley kitchen. The kitchen was painfully yellow, with old vinyl flowered wallpaper that probably hadn’t been changed since last century. He took her apples and bananas out of her canvas bag. There were onions and tinned tomato sauce, lettuce, olives and a tub of marshmallow fluff.

“Why do you have this?” he asked.

“I sit for my cousin’s son. He lived in the states for a while and he eats it with peanut butter.” She took out a jar of peanut butter and showed it to him before she stuck it in a cupboard. He put away her veggie burgers and her pots of yogurt. When it was all away, they stood there looking at one another. 

“You brought my groceries up. Was there anything else?” She put her hand on her hip and tilted her head, clearly ready for him to leave.

“You could fix me dinner.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“That’s what restaurants are for.” 

“We could order in. There’s a curry place--”

“I have a date.” She seemed embarrassed; she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Someone you like?” He stepped closer.

“I don’t know yet. It’s a first date.”

“Set up?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t want to go, but you’ll offend the person who set you up.”

“It would be rude and we texted a little. He seemed okay.”

“Cancel. You wouldn’t have let me in if you didn’t want me here.”

He didn’t know why it felt critical to be with her, but it did. He finished walking across the floor to her and took her hand. 

“Call him and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

She threaded her fingers through his and sighed. “Can I take a raincheck?”

“No, one night only.” He leaned in closer. “Do you think he’s the one, Sally Donovan?” 

“Of course not. But I don’t think you want to be, either. It’s not about that.”

“Do you think he’ll kiss better than me?”

“I made a promise, I have to follow through.” 

Sherlock cupped her cheek and she closed her eyes. He ran his thumb over her lower lip. 

“Promise me something, then. When your date is over text me. Tell me how it went.”

“That’s perverse.”

“I’m perverse.” He kissed her. Her lips opened for him and she seemed to melt in his arms. He finished kissing her mouth and kissed along her neck to her ear. “Is he picking you up here?”

“No. We’re meeting at a coffee shop.”

He kissed her lips again. He could feel her pulling away.

“I have to go.” Sally rested her forehead against his chest.

He swirled his fingers over her cheek.

“Split the cab with me.”

“Go now. I don’t want you jumping out and following. Yeah?”

“All right.”

She showed him to the door and he kissed her cheek before going out into the hall.

***

Sally met her date at the coffee shop around the corner from her flat. He was just like Gemma said; tall, handsome. Taller than Sherlock, more handsome maybe, or just as. He talked about his work and his ex-wife. An awful lot about his ex-wife. He did not ask about her work, or how she knew Gemma or really anything about her at all except whether or not she wanted to have kids. That was a definite no. His face had fallen at her answer and then he said, “Well, maybe you’ll change your mind.”  
She didn’t correct him or leave, because walking out would have reflected poorly on her friend. Instead, she just smiled and wished she’d canceled. Sally wrapped it up and he didn’t seem to mind.  
When he leaned in for a kiss outside the coffee shop, she diverted it to the cheek. Even if she felt comfortable enough going on a date, kissing was beyond the pale. He took it well and then she’d begun the walk back to her flat, phone in hand.

“My date is over,” she texted to Sherlock.

“Don’t cut it short on my account,” he texted back.

“I didn’t. We weren’t compatible.”

“Bald?”

“No. Thick head of hair.”

“Boring?”

“That too.”

Someone stepped out of the doorway of a shop just as she passed, someone in a long black coat. Sherlock walked beside her.

“Did you watch us?” Sally asked.

“It was simple to deduce which coffee shop you were going to, and I ate a rather uninspiring plate of chips while you chatted it up. He was good-looking.”

“He was, but he wanted kids. Not for me, that.”

“What’s for you?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

Sally thought about that a moment. When she pictured her future, in all honesty, she imagined dying in the line of duty. Getting older did not seem in her stars. 

“Being with someone who makes sense tonight. I’m not worried about finding the one, like you put it before. I want a brief collision, not the full train wreck.” 

“I can give that to you.”

***

Sally tried to spread the marshmallow fluff all the way to the edge of the bread crust, but Sherlock’s palm landed another stinging slap to her ass. She was bent over the kitchen table with her skirt flipped up to her waist, entirely exposed, the butter knife in her hand. She’d been trying to make him a fluffernutter sandwich for about ten minutes, but he kept distracting her. 

“I don’t really think you’re hungry,” she said.

“I’m starving, and if you can’t get it finished in the next minute, I’m going to have to fuck you very, very hard,” Sherlock whispered in her ear.

“Oh no.” Sally grinned. 

***  
Sherlock draped himself across Sally’s couch, wearing her gray bathrobe. His arms stuck out the sleeves for miles, but he didn’t have the energy to put on clothes at that moment, and it seemed rather crass to loll there naked. She lied across his lap, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of knickers, lacy blue. On her stomach was a plate and half a fluffer-nutter sandwich. It was disgusting, but he genuinely liked the salty, sticky-sweet things. She nibbled on her half, holding her arms up over her breasts. He asked her not to put on a shirt, and she’d acquiesced. It was all very wicked.  
One of the strange things he’d learned about sex was how different it could be person to person, even when the acts were virtually the same. Sally was playful and he dared to say--fun? John had been life or death; a passion that seemed it would break him every time. The others had been varying degrees of silly or wild or deadly serious. Sally was the only person besides John that he’d ever had more than once. He wondered if the pattern was setting a bad precedent.

Then she answered his question.

“Would you want to maybe make this a regular thing?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“A girlfriend?”

“No.” She sat up, lifting the plate with one hand. She set it on the table and then sat with her legs folded up to her chest. Her body became a seed pod or a cocoon, hidden away from him. “Just a friend who came over for sex and sandwiches every once in a while.”

Even though it made him happy to hear her calling him a friend, his mind clamped shut on the idea immediately.

“I can’t.”

“Okay. Last time for this then?”

He didn’t want to say that either, but it seemed like the right thing. Ending now would be the kind thing rather than leading her on the way he had with Molly Hooper. Even now he felt something crushing in his chest when he thought about Molly Hooper. There was no reason to make an enemy of Sally when they’d just started to become friends.

“That’s probably best.” He picked up his half of the sandwich. “These shouldn’t be fit for human beings to consume. I can’t believe you serve them to children.”

She smiled and bit her lower lip. “I don’t. Just didn’t want you knowing I ate them.” 

***

Sally though it probably hurt more to get shut down when she’d been naked. Somehow a blazer and some sensible slacks would have softened the rejection. Instead she’d been wearing a scrap of lace and Sherlock’s hand prints all over her ass; twenty minutes before she’d been calling him daddy. Humiliated was just the start of what she felt.  
There was no telling if she’d been successful in hiding it from him; he was supposed to be a detective genius, so he’d probably seen through her smiles. At least she was able to keep it together and keep it light until after he left. No need for him to think she was crazy. 

Sally thought the next time she saw Sherlock it would be painful or bad. However, it had been easy. He’d barelled through her crime scene, dropped useful information and thanked her for her time like a gentleman. There were no odd texts afterward asking after her perfume or demanding to know her relationship status. He was just nice, really. She found the sight of him left her feeling neutral.   
It was a pleasant change from the blind rage. 

Still, when Greg asked her to drop off a case file at Sherlock’s flat, she winced.

They sat in Greg’s car in the parking lot of the police station. She’d been assigned to work with him after months of independently grinding away on the cold case desk. The reassignment had been meant as a punishment for some unknown transgression, but Sally had loved the opportunity to work on something that mattered to her. Using familial DNA, she’d captured a serial rapist who’d been dormant for the past eight years. The case garnered her a lot of attention but still didn’t end her nickname--Diversity Hire Sally Donovan. That one stung. Greg had pulled her back into one of his investigations as a favor, he said. Working with him felt more like she was the one doing favors, seeing as she was the one doing all the legwork and getting very little of the credit. 

“It’s really got to be me?” Sally asked.

Greg seethed in the driver’s seat, suddenly frustrated in a way she’d never seen him.

“Look, I know you don’t like the man, but if you could take just one thing off my plate. I haven’t got time for his games today,” Greg said.

“And I do?”

He slapped the steering wheel, making her jump. “I have to meet with my divorce lawyer today. Miranda is asking for my back fillings--”

“I get it, Greg. It’s fine. I’ll drop it off and ask him his opinion. Yeah?”

“Thank you.” 

She couldn’t get out of that car fast enough. Sally took the tube and carried the file to Sherlock’s flat on Baker Street. She got to his door and wasn’t sure if she should go in, knock, or call him when a pretty, brown-haired woman opened the door. Sherlock trailed after her in his dressing gown. The pair kissed, then when they broke apart, both noticed Sally standing there with a file in her hand. Sherlock’s smile fled, and he looked at her disdainfully.

“Officer Donovan?”

The woman covered her face and laughed. “Oh, hey, sorry. I’m Janine Hawkins.”

“Sally Donovan.” Sally smiled at Janine and extended her hand. Janine shook it. Then Sally looked over at Sherlock. “Just dropping off some case files for Greg.”

“Oy, you got a work thing, Shirl? It’s okay, I was just on my way out,” Janine said.

She hugged him again and then went down the steps. Sally smiled and nodded at her as she passed. Sherlock didn’t watch Janine go. Instead he stared at Sally, disassembling her.

“Would you care to come up, Officer Donovan?”

“I don’t need to, friend. These could take time to go over--you can call Greg.”

“I insist. Come up.” He stepped aside and she walked past him. He smelled like floral perfume when she passed--probably Janine’s. She didn’t know why it hurt. Sherlock Holmes was nothing to her, just an acquaintance. His new girlfriend was a stunner, which didn’t make her feel good. The girlfriend also happened to be white, which made her feel even worse, although if she hadn’t, Sally wasn’t sure that would have made her feel better.

They tromped up the steps and went into his flat. It looked like she remembered from one of those early drug busts; a mishmash of scientific experiments, dusty books, curiosities and clashing wallpaper. It reminded her of a roadside attraction her parents had taken her to during their U.S. vacation. The entry way smelled like coffee and pipe tobacco, with an odd sulfuric undertone.

“You were very professional around Janine, thank you.” Sherlock flopped down in his chair, which was set before his fireplace.

“What, did you think we’d wrestle on the floor for you, friend?” Sally had asked.

He smiled, a smile she could feel playing over her skin, and said, “That would be nice.” 

She walked to the chair and swatted his stomach with the case file. “Is that your girlfriend, then?”

“Yes.” He grabbed the file out of her hands. 

“Is she 'the one'?”

“We both know 'the one' got away, Sally. I stood up at his wedding. Janine is pleasant company.”

Sally pressed her eyes and swallowed down her feelings. “It’s none of my business.” 

“I know that,” he snapped. “But you’re jealous. That’s interesting. We both agree you’d find my personal habits noxious and being my companion here would never appeal to you, but you’re jealous of my girlfriend. It must have been the sex, then.”

“Stop it--I was just starting to like you.”

“I’m sorry, Sally, but you have to understand why I couldn’t keep that up. The danger of needing you mounted each time we were together and you would never agree to be my girlfriend. You must know that.” 

“That’s why?”

“Of course it is.” Sherlock scoffed. “Now tell me about this case.”

***

Sherlock looked through his parlor window down at Sally Donovan. She stood on the sidewalk, trying to find an opening to cross the busy street. He wished he could text her and demand she come back up to his apartment. It was tempting to tell her to damn her workday and damn LeStrade because he wanted to see her on her knees in front of him. She wouldn’t react well to that request.  
They’d spent the better part of an hour talking about her case, and he’d been able to give her insights without her bristling or getting angry. He didn’t want to ruin that positive streak with an impetuous request. 

His charade with Janine had left him feeling unfulfilled, by design. When John found out about the ruse, it was critical he know the whole thing wasn’t real, in that he’d never had sex with her. It was to keep up the illusion of fidelity. 

As he watched Sally, Sherlock wondered why he bothered keeping it up. John wasn’t coming back, not with Mary pregnant. John was finally getting the family he always longed for.   
Sally’s unwillingness to have children made her more appealing as a lover. There’d be no threat of attachment there--he’d never be asked to go to a Donovan family picnic or be forced to take her to the theater. His interest in her had only grown since they stopped seeing one another. Yet, he’d quieted her insecurity with a lie, destroying his chances of being with her again. Perhaps he cared about her more than he’d let himself admit.

He walked away from the window and picked up his violin.

***

Sally went into the ladies’ room at Bart’s and was just finishing up in the stall when she heard someone run in sobbing. Sally wasn’t sure of the etiquette in such a moment, so she finished buttoning her slacks as quietly as she could. A text alert made her phone buzz and the woman on the other side of the door stopped crying. Figuring there was no way to hide her presence anymore, Sally flushed the toilet and came out of the stall, making a b-line for the sink. 

Molly Hooper stood at the other sink, her nose and eyes bright red. The pathologist dabbed at her nose with a paper towel and glanced over. Sally didn’t know her well, but knew she was a close friend of Greg’s, which made it more awkward.

“Hey.” Sally pumped out a few glugs of pink soap.

“Hello,” Molly said.

Molly gave her a little smile and slightly waved the paper towel she’d been using to dab her nose. She looked so small to Sally, her bright green sweater was oversized so that her fingers barely poked out the sleeves. 

“I use the basement ladies room at the police station for crying. There’s no other women on the floor, so it’s usually pretty private.” Sally smiled at her. Most women she knew had a place where they could go hide and have a cry at work. 

Molly chuckled. “Don’t usually cry. A friend of mine relapsed and I lost my temper. I slapped him.”

“You shouldn’t have hit him.” Sally suddenly felt less warm toward the woman. 

“I know. I know it was wrong.”

“Was it your fiance?” Sally asked. Greg had mentioned they were having problems. He’d seemed a touch giddy about that, which made her think he had a bit of a crush on Molly. 

Molly shook her head.

“No. Sherlock.”

“Well, in that case…” Sally said. She didn’t mean it, but the jibe was expected. 

Molly laughed again and sniffed.

“I’ve never done anything like that before.” Molly wrung her hands.

Sally finished up washing hers. “Greg looks the other way when it comes to Sherlock. What he doesn’t sweep away, Sherlock’s brother does. It’s infuriating. Can see how you lost your temper.”

“But I shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, but he’s a grown man, Molly. At least you’re not dating him, right? His girlfriend--”

Molly’s face dropped. “Sherlock’s got a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Brunette. Irish, I think.”

Molly’s lower lip trembled. “It’s like I don’t know him.”

Sally hadn’t intended to make her feel worse. “I’m sorry.”

Molly looked at her face in the mirror. “No, it’s good. I’ve got to get over it. I’ve just got to get over it.”

“Yeah.”

Sally wondered what he’d done to hurt Molly so badly. Maybe he’d slept with every available woman associated with the department. The thought made Sally feel sick to her stomach. She left Molly alone in the white tiled bathroom, pondering her reflection in the mirror.

A relapse. She knew he’d had problems, but the last time she saw him, he’d seemed fine. 

Sally walked out into the hallway and checked her phone. Greg texting her to see what was taking her so long. She stuck it back in her pocket. There would be time later to find out what was going on with Sherlock.   
At that moment she had work to do.


End file.
